


the basement kids of garreg mach

by orphan_account



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Gen, pre-dlc release
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-16
Updated: 2020-01-16
Packaged: 2021-02-27 06:02:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,107
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22282324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Sylvain goes to the kitchens for a late-night snack.He finds mole people.
Comments: 23
Kudos: 332





	the basement kids of garreg mach

Like all of the most interesting things that happen at the monastery, it happens at night.

Sylvain is leaning against a counter in the student kitchens, an apple in hand, shirt still partially unbuttoned from his distraction of the day. He’d figured out early in the evening that it was one of _those_ nights, and he’d thought that sleep might come easier if _he_ did, too—the girl had wanted to snuggle afterwards, which was fine, but she’d fallen asleep and he still wasn’t tired, so really, who could blame him for sneaking out of that one?

The apple crunches under his teeth. The juice dribbles from one corner of his mouth. Sylvain frowns, raising a hand to wipe at his chin.

“Can’t sleep, huh?”

The voice rings out loud and clear in the silence of the empty kitchen. Sylvain nearly shits himself on the spot. He opens his mouth to say something, but he stops short at the sight of the—the man who is currently rising out of a hole in the kitchen floor that wasn’t there two seconds ago.

“Who—?” he starts, only to choke as the strange man dusts himself off and moves into the candlelight. Whoever this dude is, he’s _jacked._ He’s got abs for days and a white jacket that looks like a bad palette swap of his own and a thick, dungeon-style chain laid flat across a pair of _massive fucking tits._

Sylvain thinks, distant and dazed, that he might have fallen asleep after all.

“Don’t worry about it,” muscle-man reassures him, crossing the length of the kitchen in the dark like he owns the place. Sylvain stares dumbly at his silhouette as he pulls a loaf of bread from one of the pantries and starts making himself a sandwich.

“Balthus, I thought I told you to make sure there were no surface-dwellers when you came up this time,” calls a solemn female voice from the other side of the room. Sylvain whips his head around just fast enough to catch some blonde chick with corkscrew curls clambering out of the floor, scowling at the big dude’s back. “It was bad enough having to deal with that green-haired one the other night. I thought for sure he’d end up following us back to Abyss.”

“Aw, Coco, don’t be like that.” Another voice, this time from the side of the room where muscle-man—Balthus?—is casually slicing ham for his sandwich. Sylvain squints. He thinks he can make out a pair of legs kicking at the air, a slight frame with reddish hair perched on the edge of the counter. It’s hard to tell in the low light, but the curve of her midriff suggests that it’s also bare. “What’s the harm? It’s not like he can tell anyone about us. Nobody will believe it.”

“I,” Sylvain starts, but he can’t figure out where this sentence might be going, because Basement Girl is probably right.

Blondie is starting to look frustrated. “Hapi, we simply can’t keep doing this. Someone will find out. These people will find some foul reason to come after us.”

Sylvain clears his throat. “I don’t, uh, think anybody’s gonna come after you for—”

“It’s fine, Constance.” This voice comes from somewhere _way too close_ to him; Sylvain yelps, banging his shin on a crate stacked next to the counter. Dimly, he notices that the apple in his left hand is gone, and there’s this fucking purple dude standing three feet away eating it instead. Sylvain thinks, not entirely unkindly, that he looks like a prettier Lorenz. Like... Lorenz, but fuckable. “A few isolated incidents like this won’t mean much. I’d rather you not worry yourself over it.”

Constance, whose body is still halfway in the floor, props her elbows on the cobblestone and sighs.

Purple Twink assesses Sylvain over his stolen apple with a twinkle in his eye. He’s making one of Claude’s faces—the one he makes when he knows he’s winning at chess and Sylvain hasn’t fully caught onto the gambit yet. “What’s your name?”

“Um. I’m Sylvain,” says Sylvain, deciding to fully embrace whatever lucid-dream-ass nonsense is currently happening to him. “Who are _you?”_

“We’re the Ashen Wolves,” Balthus says around a mouthful of ham sandwich. He’s turned back around to face Sylvain again, which means Sylvain is hard-pressed to not stare at the way his absolutely _unreal_ abs flex while he talks and gestures. “We’re the secret fourth house that lives beneath Garreg Mach. The surface world turned its back on us, and we did the same in return.”

“Huh,” he says, now certain. This is definitely a dream. It sounds like a story straight out of one of Bernadetta’s scrapped mystery novels. There’s no way this shit would happen in real life.

“You done yet?” Redhead pokes Balthus right in the chain that drapes across his chest, her fingertip fitting perfectly in the gap at the center of each heavy metal link. “Make me one too, Balthus. Food tastes better when it’s fresh up here.”

Balthus crams half of the sandwich in his mouth at once. “Make your own, Hapi.” Hapi frowns, but she hops off the counter and starts rummaging around in the pantry all the same.

Sylvain remembers, distantly, that Ashe and Caspar were saying something about a pantry thief the other day. _Just wait till they hear about this._

On the other side of the kitchen, Constance has just finished climbing out of the floor, breathing hard. Sylvain wonders, for a minute, if she’s okay. Sylvain is also only a man, and his eyes are drawn immediately to her waist, probably small enough for both his hands to circle, the delicate curve of her fingers over the fan she holds in one hand—he realizes, like a punch to the gut, that all four of them are wearing those fucking bondage chains in some form or another.

“Anyway,” Pretty Purple Boy says, chucking the core of Sylvain’s now-finished apple in the compost bin, “we should really be on our way. It was nice meeting you, Sylvain.”

“Nice to meet you too, uh...” Sylvain’s good upbringing replies for him, even as he wonders why his subconscious would create four sexy basement goths and _not_ let them fuck before they decided to leave.

Purple Twink grins. “It’s Yuri,” he says. And then—and then they just _disappear,_ one by one, back into the floor from whence they came.

Hapi is the last to lower herself down, meeting Sylvain’s eyes with a laugh hidden behind her own.

“Remember: no one will ever believe you,” she says, and the stone panel slams shut.

**Author's Note:**

> so, about that dlc announcement


End file.
